Two Questions
by Valerie E. Mackin
Summary: He couldn't remember most of last night. He remembered the drinking, obviously…a lot of drinking, actually... - A one-shot in the Boondock Saints universe...what exactly did Murphy do last night, and why can't he remember? M for language only.


A blinding light pierced Murphy's eyelids, and a searing pain that could only have originated in the hottest fires of Hell ripped through his skull. He groaned and rolled over, sitting up and wincing as he did so. Leaning forward, he dropped his face into his hands, trying to block out the nuclear sunlight.

He yawned and stretched, glad today was Saturday; he didn't think he'd be able to handle work with a hangover like this one. Hell, he couldn't even remember most of last night. He remembered the drinking, obviously…a lot of drinking, actually. There was Connor, and Doc. There was Connor making fun of Doc. Rocco said something that had seemed to make sense at the time, but made no fucking sense now. There was a game of pool. And something about…did he…Wait. Murphy turned abruptly, ignoring the sharp stab of pain in his head from the sudden movement. Yes, there was definitely someone else in his bed.

Well, alrighty then.

His self-satisfied smirk began to make an appearance before he realized that, even if he had scored, it wouldn't do him a damn bit of good. He didn't remember anything his hook up: not the girl, not how they met, what had led up to him bringing her back here, her name. Hell, he didn't even remember what she looked like.

Fuck.

He glanced over at his brother's mattress, relieved to see Connor was still out cold, snoring like a buzz saw. Asshole could sleep through anything, thank Christ. He sighed and turned back to the girl. She was sleeping quietly, unlike his industrial-grade twin, with her back to him, cocooned in half of his blanket. He couldn't even see what color her hair was. He reached over and gently shook the girl's shoulder, not wanting to startle her, but needing to sort this out before Connor woke up and gave him shit about it.

As she stirred and stretched beneath the blanket, Murphy had a brief flash of a tall brunette leaning over one of the pool tables in McGinty's and whispering something in his ear in a rather sexy deep voice. The smirk made a return appearance as the girl rolled over to face him.

Murphy froze. His mouth dropped open and one of his eyes twitched, just a little. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and rubbed them hard as he thought, _I'm fuckin' losing it. Worst hangover ever, but even then…there's no fuckin' way._

No. Fuckin'. Way. He'd never been that drunk in his entire life; he didn't honestly believe anyone _could_ get that drunk and still be alive afterwards. His mystery conquest was…a man.

Fuckin' hell, man.

Staring open-mouthed in his hung-over shock and stupidity, Murphy wondered how in the hell he could ever have mistaken this man for a woman, much less one he'd find attractive enough to bring home. For starters, the guy looked to be a good four or five inches taller than Murphy, and that was judging with him lying down. For another, this guy made Sylvester Stallone look like Nicole Kidman.

"I…You…did we…what the fuck, man?" Murphy had no idea where to start, so just went with whatever came out of his mouth. He wondered briefly, dazedly, if that was possibly what had led up to this situation in the first place.

The other man grinned and said, "You were awfully trashed last night, cutie, I just couldn't resist taking advantage of you."

Murphy groaned and dropped his face in his hands again, muffling his protest. "No offense, man, but…I wouldn't…I mean, I'm not…well, but…I just." He looked back at the other man over the tops of his fingers. "I'm not into guys, man."

The other man sighed and shrugged. "Story of my life: I find a cute one, he's drunk and all over me, but the second he sobers up, he 'isn't into guys.'" He sighed and pulled off the blanket, revealing a spectacularly trampy and wrinkled but definitely female outfit. He turned back to Murphy with a rueful half-smile on his face.

"But you tried to be nice, at least, and I can tell you feel like shit now, so I'm gonna let you off the hook. I know you're freaked, but nothing happened."

Okay, confusion.

"Then what th' fuck are ya doin' in me bed, exactly?"

The man's half-smile widened into a full grin as he replied, "Not to cause any family issues, but your brother paid me thirty bucks, plus all the drinks I wanted last night, if I could fool you into thinking I was a woman and get you to bring me home. He said he just wanted to fuck with you, no pun intended, of course. You really must've had a lot, though, sugar, 'cause it didn't take much convincing."

"Why're ya tellin' me all this, then?"

The man shrugged. "Well, honey, to be honest, you are awfully cute, even if I know I don't stand a chance. And you were terribly sweet and gentleman-like all the way home, even though you could barely walk. I feel kind of bad for you. You seemed so proud of yourself for 'winnin' the fair lass,' as you so adorably put it…then you just passed out. I didn't have the heart to make it worse for you this morning."

Murphy groaned and let his head drop back into his hands. At least it hadn't gone as far as he'd thought, but…this was really almost as bad. Almost. He still had to fix this, and fast, before Connor woke up, though, or he'd never hear the end of it. He glared at the prone, snoring form of his evil twin, thinking hard. Unfortunately, the fact that he'd brought the man home last night meant most of the damage was already done. Unless…

Murphy turned quickly to the other man, his smirk making one last appearance. "I have two questions fer ya: how much did me brother drink last night, and how'd ya like to make an extra fifty?"

….

Connor coughed and stretched, refusing to open his eyes. Surely the Good Lord never intended for the sun to cause quite so much pain; must be why it rained so much in Ireland. The clouds kept all the hangovers from blinding people. Stretching, Connor rolled over to check on Murph, only the haziest of memories from the night before. Something about a guy in drag, not very convincing drag, to be honest.

Halfway over, Connor hit a bump.

"What the fuck?"

"Morning, cutie. Was last night good for you, too?"

_Author's Note_ – I originally posted this story as the first chapter in a collection of one-shots about the brothers that all took place in the same general universe, although not really in any particular order. I've posted one other story from that collection so far (Cold Feet) with some success, although you don't have to read either one for the other to make sense. Let's just say all of my Boondock Saints stories will take place in the same general universe unless otherwise stated. I'm hoping for some reviews, even if the story isn't smutty, the way I normally like 'em. Thanks!


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